How to Love a Wall
The bricks are just perfectly the color of her lips Cracked like an old scab He presses his shuddering fingers into the soft red flesh Whispering sweet nothings To the apparition of aching memories His clouded eyes miss the white cracks Not to be allowed to drip their innocence On his haunting Without which he is just another brokenhearted old man Remembered only by the stories he whispered To the stone apparition of misplaced love She wipes the blood from his fingers Each individually with care Enough to negate the violence of his love The white innocence of the cloth Is stained with his memory Cloth easily forgets the whispers of fantasy Blacked out on reality She kissed the wall gently The closest she ever came to honesty Touching him vicariously